Of Horses and Boys
by amaretto and coke
Summary: Shasta's POV. Completed.
1. Breaking away

Damn this old fool.

Wait, I don't mean that. I'm just upset. Tired. I'm tired of the smell of fish and this old hut and our lone palm tree and the donkey and the old man that I call my father. Even as I stare down at my fingers that endlessly twist the frayed cords of a frayed net, I can see him out of the corner of my eye, and I turn my head immediately. I don't want to see him.

An overwhelming feeling washes over me, a dormant emotion that I rarely feel. I would learn later that it was known as _pride._ But for now, I know it as that aggravating prickle that dances at the base of my neck. It makes my body burn and whispers in my ear, _You're meant for more than this. There's somewhere, maybe just over that hill, where you really belong. _It makes me want to stand up on my own two feet and subdue this bitter, dried husk with only a look. I don't have to be like him, resorting to blows and vague poetics to crush an unwilling sprit. Something inside of me has the strength to cast my eyes upon someone and obliterate them with a mere glance. What it is and where it is, though, is still beyond my grasp for now.

My eyes sting with sand and the salt water burns my calluses and the old man's voice, dry and accompanied with a constant revolting gargle, rings in my ears. Rings louder than the hoofs of the Tarkaan's horse that is coming our way.

"Stupid boy! Kneel down! Do you want the man to hit you?"

_He can't hit me much harder than you, old man. _I prostrate myself, and my father does the same, in a much more servile fashion. That burning sensation settles in at the base of my neck again as I watch him literally lick the dust like a snake. I hate to watch him do this. He kisses the feet of the men that he curses in his room. It seems wrong somehow. Even if we are nothing more than dirt to these great men of the Calormen empire.

I'm in the stable now, eating dinner. Maybe I should say _trying_ to eat dinner. The bread is so stale that I couldn't get it down without water, and naturally there's none to be had. 

It wouldn't matter. Arakeesh wants to sell me. I can call him that now, because he's not my father. Oh, sure, I knew that along, but now I _know._ And it only makes me feel better, because as many emotions that passed through my mind when I thought of him, 'love' was never present in the assembly. 'Affection' just barely deigned to show its face. 

I remember feeling affectionately towards him once in my life, when he protected me as I came running home in terror from boys my own age and size, bawling my eyes out while trying to dodge rocks. The brief gratitude had faded appropriately enough as I realized that he was merely protecting a valuable investment – me. If he let the boys beat me, he would be bereft of his slave. And not surprisingly, he simply told them to go home, and took me indoors for a good thrashing. No explanation was admitted. My pleas of innocence fell on deaf ears, as his only comment was that I must have done something deserving of such a shunning. 

How could I be capable of any such thing? I hardly had enough sense to write my own name. They had thrown their childish missiles my way amidst a torrent of equally immature curses, because I dared to want to associate with them while looking so very different.

Different? Oh, yes, I'm certainly different. Every person that I've ever met in my entire life has dark skin, dark eyes and dark hair. And usually a dark expression on their face. They seem to be gloomy by birth. I'm quite pale by comparison. My hair resembles the color of the sand, my eyes are a perfect match for the ocean. And I happen to think that smiling is quite an enjoyable pastime. I stand out. In a bad way.

I try to get comfortable in the itchy straw, with no company except for this horse who keeps staring at me. I do hope he isn't rabid. We're going to be sharing some close quarters.

I've never really felt wind before. At least not like_ this._ I've felt the storms that torment us all with their sweltering heat and their blistering rain that always follows. But this, by comparison, is delicious: cool wind that licks my closed eyelids, gentle rain that glides over my warm cheeks like fingers. I tremble with delight. I've never been quite so happy.

"I never knew someone who liked rain quite as much as you seem to, Shasta," the horse comments.

Bree's voice is puzzling. He's often sarcastic without genuine disdain, which confuses me. He's so much smarter than I am, but he often treats me as an equal, which Arakeesh would have never bothered to do. I like Bree. I somehow feel akin to him.


	2. Unattainable

She's lying there, all aglow in the moonlight, half turned over. I'm not worthy to look at her face, her creamy brown skin, her full lips tinged with purple, her flaring nostrils. All that I can see of her now is her lustrous black hair. It gleams like moonlight on the ocean. She's so lithe and strong and confident and perfect. I could almost compete with her in the purity of her emotion. I admire her in that torturing, smothering way that a master overwhelms the senses of a slave, and she despises me as only a master can.

And to make matters ever so much worse, Bree is courting her. Don't laugh; I mean it. Watching the preening way that he struts around, I've finally come to understand pride. Not the pride of a noble birth either, the mean, sneaking sort, the _I know something you don't know_ kind. And his voice when he's speaking of me, it hurts me with a thin, sharp sort of pain. Less of a blow from a fist; more of a crack from a whip. It's strange that I could possibly be jealous of a horse. But I suppose it's no stranger than the idea that a horse could speak to begin with.

He must think that I don't see him when we've stopped for the night, the way that he rests his long chin on her arched shoulder when she dismounts. The way that he snuffs the air as she passes by without speaking just as if I don't exist. He doesn't even say 'goodnight' to me anymore, because they're still talking by the time I fall asleep. 

Her eyes cut me. She's looking at something else, and they land on me accidentally before she snatches her gaze from my bowed head. I feel the heat from her stare for just a moment, and it sears me just like a brand. Just another scar. You'll never see them, Aravis. I know how to hide them well.

I don't look her way while we ride. I don't want to see her face harden in that disgusted way. I don't want to see the effects of my presence on her royal highness's composure. After all, she _is_ a noblewoman, even if she's just a runaway right now. The only time that I can truly gaze upon her is when she sleeps, the way that she's sleeping now. I've never seen such a self-sufficient woman. I doubt that I ever will again.

She stirs in her restless sleep, eyes suddenly opening to meet my own. But only for a moment, as her lips curl with a sneer and she rolls over, presenting me with her well-formed back. 

Just one more wound. Don't worry, Aravis, I'll never tell.

I've only been to Tashbaan with Arsheesh a few times, selling fresh fish. We never visited the city for the sake of pleasure. He was too practical of a man for such frivolity, and I remember not liking the city very much as a young boy. I suppose it's because of the smell – an overwhelming combination of hot sweat and garbage, pungent food, rotten food, and unwashed bodies. It's quite distasteful. And I'm not the only one who feels this way. Aravis looks sterner than I've ever seen her. It must be quite a comedown for her, actually walking the streets with us normal folks. She seemed to get quite a kick when that soldier hit me, though.

We've made a human wall now, as a herald passes by, shouting for us to move. That's one other thing I never liked about Tashbaan, that you learned quickly to get out of the way of nobles, even to the point of endangering your own well-being to do so. As a child, I watched as an old man, not much older than Arsheesh himself, was first struck down with a blow from a spear, and then trampled in the ensuing crush right before my eyes. I marveled that no one even cared enough to move the body after the lord went by. Arsheesh seemed quite unmoved by pity, offering no answer to my naïve questions. I didn't sleep very well that night.

"Make way for the barbarian lords!"

The announcement seems out of place, as a group of fair-skinned men come strolling by in a happy, carefree manner. They don't remind me of savages. Their very presence causes that quiet voice to whisper in my ears again. _See? There are other happy people in this world other than just you. _Watching them walk in a natural, unrestrained motion, free from the pretentious air of mystery that seems that suits the average Calormene so well, my mind drifts away in a hopeless dream, wondering just what it would be like to be with them, truly loving life.

So maybe that's why when they grab me and haul me away, I don't really have much to say about it.


	3. Sand castles

The sand is hot beneath my feet. The tombs are in sight. And I'm alone.

Raised on a good diet of Calormene superstition and a heaping dose of ignorance, I'm uncertain about the validity of the ghost stories that I hear concerning the Tombs of the Kings. They definitely look imposing enough.

This could very easily be the gloomiest sunset I've ever seen.

I wanted so badly to travel with those people, those happy, heartfelt people. They seemed so…carefree would be the wrong word. Perhaps they just showed me the middle ground between the dour Calormene men and their obnoxious, frittering wives. Practical enough to realize their danger, and competent enough to get out of it. I wanted to be a part of their lives, be wanted _somewhere_ for once. I feel a pang when I think of the boy who came in at the last minute and ruined it for me.

Looking up at the sky and out at the desert just makes me more aware of very small I am, so I slink over to the tombs and take shelter on the side that faces the city. I heard jackals crying out in the distance, and my hands and feet become clammy with fear and slick with sweat. 

I wish they hadn't left me behind.

I wish that everyone else was here. Aravis has a scimitar, she'd protect me. Or at any rate, protect Bree.

She _is_ here.

Silhouetted by the moonlight, she stands out from the glowing sands. She isn't speaking, but she holds a hand out to me. I stand instantly, take it. 

She embraces me, in a way that I in my ignorance could scarcely imagine. She makes me feel lightheaded, weak. The way I felt when I first saw Queen Susan. I understand how Rabadash must feel, replete with desire that could never be quenched.

Aravis is more beautiful than Susan could ever be. Susan relies on her royal gowns; Aravis has the moon itself to robe her body. I run a rough finger over her lips. They feel like the flowers in the marketplaces. The ones that I was forbidden to touch. They were too good, too rich, too dainty for commoners. 

The roses. Her lips are the petals of a dusky violet rose. I draw her closer, scraping that same callused finger down the deep groove of her back, and she shudders. 

Tremble for me, Aravis. Will you moan my name in my ear? Will you clutch me when I kiss your neck? Will you not swallow me whole when I dare to taste the honey from your lips? Will you not scream with delight when I –

My eyes fly open as I hear a terrible howl, very near by. And they fill with tears as I watch handfuls of sand slip through my fingers and blow away on the wind.

There's a cat nearby. It's so large, I can scarcely believe it's just a cat. Besides, there's that matter of its eyes. They're…unnaturally aware.

I talk to this cat for a while, telling it my fears, my worries. I almost tell it of my desire, but stop. Those thoughts are private. I won't share Aravis with anyone.

I hope that she's actually coming back for me. Seeing the dark tints of the morning sky remind me of her lips, curling in a smirk. 

What will you do, princess? What will you do on that momentous day that I make you smile?

On the evening of the second day, she comes. With the horses. I step out of the shadows of the tombs and walk towards them. For a fraction of a second, something like relief pools in her eyes, only to be smothered by an ill-timed blink.

She tells us of Rabadash's plan to kidnap Queen Susan; I tell them of the Narnians' intended destination and how to get there by way of the desert. The plan in motion, we mount and ride.

The dark obscures the view of anyone else's face. Bree sounds calm. Hwin seems a little tired. But I don't quite dare to look at her until the smudgy dawn lights up the horizon. Then I take a little peek, the barest satisfaction I can grant myself.

Her head is high, her mouth solemn. I wonder what secrets she's got to tell. We trudge on in silence.


	4. Worth dying for

The river looks alive as it flows past us with an earthy sound.

After a journey that I wouldn't wish on Arsheesh, we've found the valley that Sallowpad, the raven, spoke of. The horses are drinking noisily. I'm in the water, completely dunking myself. And Aravis is watching me out of the corner of her black eyes. I know, because I'm watching her out of the corner of my blue eyes.

The rest is deeply refreshing, and everyone's drowsy quite presently. I want to get up, to go to them and force them to move on. But sleep beckons, and I'm simply in no position to resist. I lie down, staring at the silver moon surrounded by the rich velvet night. I think of Aravis.

She's touching me. And shouting. What could I have done while sleeping?

Sleeping…! Gods, it's broad daylight! I see her frustration clearly; we've all overslept, possibly making this torturous trip in vain. I scramble to my feet. She's trying to wake the horses.

"Bree," she grunts while pulling at his bridle, "get up _now."_

He argues with her in his dismissive tone. It's never rankled so much as it does now. I want to jump in, to defend her. But something holds me back, and I stand quietly, stroking Hwin's nose. The mare is quite upset, and prances nervously before speaking.

"Forgive me," she says, "I feel just as we all do. I think that I can't go on either. But I think - I _know - _that there's been times when I just couldn't go another step, but I was forced to, and I always found that I could. If we're doing this for Narnia's sake, why shouldn't we be able to go as far as we need to?"

Giving her a withering look, Bree draws himself up to his full height and says in an icy tone, "I find myself just a little more qualified to talk about forced marches than yourself."

For the first time in memory, I see Aravis give him a look of pure hatred. I feel much the same; if I had a whip in my hand right now, I'd hit him with it. Instead, we both turn away from him and comfort Hwin.

As we exit the valley and trot over a heath, Hwin gasps. Aravis asks her if she's hurt herself. The response instills fear in all of us. 

"It's Rabadash!"

Aravis automatically punches Hwin with her heels, urging the horse onward. I do likewise, feeling Bree's heart began to pound as he runs faster.

We race with the army, but although we're ahead, it's not enough. And for some unknown reason, Bree is beginning to lag. Aravis yells at him, but he splutters foam and shakes his head.

Just then, we all hear a lion snarling. Bree spasms, bolts, and within seconds I look back through the dust that surrounds us to see Hwin and Aravis far behind. And gaining on the two of them, the lion.

"Bree!" I shout. I have no reins to slow his progress, and he's forbidden me to pull his mane. "We have to go back!" He continues on recklessly. He hasn't heard me. 

My hands feel slippery against my knees, but I know what I'm going to do. I jump off at a horrible angle and go stumbling back on a twisted ankle. Hwin is streaming sweat; she can't run any faster. Aravis is turning backwards while trying to draw her sword.

The lion is leaping at them. 

Hwin screams as she makes one final plunging effort to get away, but all I can see is Aravis' face, the expression of overwhelming despair. Brave as she is, she doesn't want to die.

I'm almost there when the claws tear into her back and mutilate her skin. She cries out and falls against Hwin's neck.

And now I'm here. I have nothing to attack with except my rage. I scream, "Go away!" at the beast as it lands from its terrible leap and to my infinite surprise, it does.

Hwin, nearly insensible with fright, has stopped just a little way ahead of me. A wizened old man, stands in the entrance of a moss-encrusted gate, bringing the terrified horse and the injured girl in to safety. Bree, as expected, has beaten everyone else and is watching the scene from the far corner of the enclosed garden. But I don't have time to confront him. I approach the hermit. "Are you King Lune of Archenland?"

He disappoints me by negating, but as I tell him the dire situation that Archenland faces, he turns me away from his home and points in the opposite direction. "My son, you will find the King if you run that way." I take an anxious look towards his cottage, but he once again turns me in the way that I am to go. "Remember, you must always run, or you will be too late."

I do as I am urged, only half thinking about my mission to find King Lune. A beautiful, dark-skinned princess occupies the rest of my thoughts.


	5. We three Kings

Clouds aren't nearly as interesting from the inside.

I hate horses. At least, horses that aren't Bree. I've kicked this one over and over again, and he continues to ignore me. I've clearly lost King Lune's party, and nearly met Rabadash's. 

Nearly choking with self-pity, I began to grumble aloud about nearly everything that has gone wrong on this trip. As I get to the final complaint, the one about Aravis nearly being eaten, a warm tear bubbles from my eye onto the horse's coat. It is presently joined by others, streaming out and sliding down until my cheeks are wet and chilled.

Someone – or _something_ – just made a noise beside me. 

And the worst part is, it wasn't a loud snarl or rumble or even the sound of a foot breaking a branch. It's the sound of something _breathing._ And since I've just noticed it, I couldn't begin to imagine how long it's been there. It could have been stalking me for a while at this point. I say "stalking" because from the scale of the breaths this thing is taking, it's _huge. _And what good could a giant do me right now?

If you've ever been crying and then been given an abrupt shock, you know that for some reason you usually stop crying. Probably because you don't want to be overheard. But I'm damned if I do, because I'm still riding in a cloud, and equally so if I don't, because this fool of a horse won't gallop.

Faintly, in a little peep of a whisper, I speak, and a Voice answers me. At the first sound of it, pride, the real, noble sort, races up and down my spine and twists itself into my soul so quickly that I mistake it for fear. Trembling and about to weep, I beg it to leave, but it assures and reassures me, benevolently offering to share the burdens of my heart.

At the thought of a sympathetic ear, all of the barriers dissolve, and I pour my heart out, telling this - _thing_ - about practically the whole journey. I feel very sorry for myself, but the Voice is strangely indifferent, if not unsympathetic. "You have hardly met ill fortune, Child."

"Meeting all those lions isn't bad luck?"

"There was only one lion."

"But even from the first night, there were at least two, and then –"

"There was but one, Child. He moved swiftly."

My disbelief and fear returns for a moment as I stop to think. When I speak again, my voice is not steady. "How do you know?"

"I was the Lion."

I say nothing; there is nothing to say. The Voice continues on, accounting for every encounter, but only one latches onto my ear and holds my attention captive. I dare to ask him about it. "So you were the one who hurt Aravis?"

"I was."

I thought that perhaps I would be angry upon getting the confirmation that I fully expected. Instead, I'm only awed that this Voice, Lion notwithstanding, could venture on so valiant a woman and emerge unscathed. "Why?"

"It is not for you to know from me, my son. You may be told at a later time."

This horse hasn't sped up _yet._

"You may be told all things a later time. But for now, yours is to have courage and continue on your appointed path. Welcome home, my son!"

With dramatic speed, it's daylight, and I can once again see this wretch of a horse. We're loping up a path towards a forest glen. And right beside us both is a Lion, whose mane of living light outshines the sun. It's easily as tall as the horse. The solemn, golden eyes that gaze upon me fill me body and soul with pride, the truest, most honorable kind.

What could I say in the presence of such awe-inspiring glory? Nothing comes to mind, but for once, nothing is the right thing for me to say. I slip out of the saddle and throw myself face first before the Lion, prostrating myself the same way that I did so long ago in front of that Tarkaan. Things are different now. I would be honored to kiss the paws of this wonderful, majestic animal. As I move forward to do so, I feel compelled to meet his eyes. 

__

Be honored, O rightful heir of Archenland. May goodness and mercy follow you all the days of your life, as you and yours dwell in your lord's house forever.

And then he is gone. 

Two days and multiple wonderfully fulfilling meals later, I am resting on the cool side of a house owned by three Dwarf brothers. Although I don't know if King Lune's party made it where they were headed in time, somehow I feel no anxiety. The meeting with the Lion is still fresh in my mind, and it's hard to be afraid of _anything_ after seeing something like that.

The sound of horns brings the brothers scurrying out. As they emerge, Rogin yells excitedly, "King Edmund!"

So _they've _made it through as well! Now I understand why I'm not afraid. The omens are good. I stir myself, informing the Dwarves that I intend to meet the King's company. They wish me luck and each shakes my hand firmly before I take my leave.

But before I can make myself known to the King of Narnia, the young boy whom I met in Calormen comes running up excitedly. "Ah, you made it after all! Did you know that Chervy the Stag met us yesterday and said that a boy who looked just like me had news of two hundred Calmorenes on their way to Anvard? No one knew whom he was talking about except me! I had a good feeling about you from the moment that we met. I say, does my father know that you're about?"

"Your Highness, who is your friend?" a familiar voice asks in the crowd. And for the first time in a few days, I feel vaguely discomfited. It's King Edmund.

"Sire, it's my twin. Remember, you met him for the first time in Calormen?" Before I can resist, Corin grabs me in a firm grip and hauls me off to meet the King again. A moment later, we are standing before the young King, who regards me with a piercing stare. It is not a cold look, but I squirm beneath it all the same. 

His sister, who has yet to dismount, stares at me in surprise. "Corin, dear! I never knew that you had a twin!" Her pretty face clouds over for just a moment as she lapses into thought. "But, then - ?"

I take the opportunity to plead my case. "Please, Your Highness, I couldn't have helped what happened in Calormen. I would have asked you for help, but I didn't know any better. And I wouldn't have dreamed of betraying you. I was just…afraid." My head bows in the old way, the way I used to ask pardon of Arsheesh. 

But instead of a blow, a hand lifts up my chin and coaxes me to meet the King's eyes. Although they are still stern, they are full of grace. "I know that now, boy. Try to avoid awkward situations in future, if you dislike awkward explanations. But you have my forgiveness, and all's well."

With a large burden thus relinquished, I go off to speak with others in the large party whose acquaintance I had previously enjoyed. I am not far into conversation with Mr. Tumnus when we both hear King Edmund shouting. "By the Lion's Mane…! Your Royal Highness, this is really too bad of you! When will you stop behaving in such an unbecoming manner? I'd just as soon have hornets in your place!"

Once again, Corin's gotten himself into trouble. Something tells me that life won't be very dull if I continue to hang around with him. I go to see what's developed, and come upon King Edmund, looking quite angered, a Dwarf who is obviously in pain, and Corin himself.

After getting an explanation from both parties, Edmund turns back to his young charge. Although the main brunt of his fury is spent, he is quite fearsome to behold all the same. "Look at what you've done, Your Highness. This warrior is lost to us, and surely you know that battle is upon us all!"

Without any hesitation, Corin offers to take his place, but the King dismisses him brusquely. Shrugging, the prince apologizes to the injured Dwarf, then pulls me aside. "Look, there's Thornbut's armor. Hurry up and put it on."

"But why?" I ask, even though I know full well why.

"So we can be in the battle together, that's why! He's picking up the undercoat of mail before he realizes that I haven't responded. "You _do_ want to, don't you?"

"Yes," I say uncertainly, despite some very strong doubt. 

But that is all he wants to hear, and he begins to dress me quickly, handing me the shield to hold as he puts the sword belt on my body. "Great, you look just perfect. Now hop on that horse and hold steady until they start moving again. When they begin to ride off, we'll keep well to the back until the actual charge. Then they'll never notice us."

As we maneuver our steeds towards the end of the group, I overhear Queen Lucy. Her voice is light and lilting, somewhat reminiscent of Queen Susan, and is easy to distinguish among the general noise. She is inquiring Corin's whereabouts of Edmund. The King's answer is, "He's not up here, and that's welcome news. Leave well enough alone."

She is not satisfied, as she then turns to Lord Peridan to say, "Isn't there a prophecy about the elder son of King Lune? As you may recall, 'He will save Archenland from the deadliest danger in which ever she lay?'"

Peridan laughs. "If it concerns Prince Corin, I'd like to see that one come true myself."

"Not Corin, my Lord – his elder brother."

"You mean Prince Cor, your Highness? But he was lost so long ago."

"And yet a young man, very much like Prince Corin, has come all the way from beyond Calormen to warn us of treachery afoot – do you not think that other boy is indeed Prince Cor?"

"Well, I do suppose – I mean, I didn't get a very good look at him myself – but, yes, I believe that could be our long lost princeling."

If I had been paying attention, I suppose that conversation would have meant something to me at the time. But a battle is at hand, and once again we're headed into the mountains to cross a pass. For the first time in a while, I think of Aravis, and recall what the Lion said about her. So he had never meant to kill her at all! I do wonder why he cut her, though.

The blast of a horn brings me back to the present, reminding me that I may lose my own life soon. I mumble a silent, ill-constructed prayer to the Lion to keep me safe. I hope that I'll see her again.


	6. The first time

Corin definitely knows how to get around grownups. He's completely right about being able to keep quiet in the rear guard and remain unnoticed. As we move off towards Anvard, he shows me how to hold reins properly. If only I could find that one horse again. I'd show him a thing or two.

But we're crossing through the pass now, with wild wind blowing all about and chilling me to the bone. It's hard to believe that I did this unknowingly just a few days before. But I remember the piercing, sorrowful, beautiful eyes of that Lion, and I hold the reins a little more firmly. The word _coincidence_ has all but faded from my vocabulary.

The line comes to a stop, with much jingling and snorting. A soft murmur begins, as airy as the wind, but dies down. I crane a little to see down to the plain, but it's no use. Corin glances my way. "There'll be plenty to see, once we start the charge."

The word _charge _reminds me of just how serious this is. He hasn't asked me to go a-maying with him, after all. We're about to fight a battle. My mouth instantly dries; simultaneously, my hands become slick with sweat.

Birds are passing over in swarms. I must look startled, for he says nonchalantly, "Preparing for a feast, they are."

I cringe.

The king's authoritative tenor echoes slightly as he gives final instructions to Lord Peridan. The blood courses through my skull so loudly that I can't make out a word of it. 

"Get _on,_ King Edmund," Corin grumbles. I stare at him, taken aback. How can he be so flippant? Is he actually excited by the thought of killing people? Is he crazy?

Am I –

My last thought is stolen by the wind and wafted far away as my horse begins to move, faster and faster. We're picking up speed as the Narnian army heads unswervingly toward Anvard's gate.

I'm sick at heart; I don't want to do this at all. I want to pull up and ride out of there as fast as I can. I don't want to fight. I don't want to die.

__

The Lion promised…

Corin's face is aglow. Mine is turning pale. The jarring motion of my horse's trot equals the hard thumping of my heart.

We're closing in. The large cats go leaping ahead. The giants are immediately behind. There's no turning back now.

I can see the surprise on the faces of the men holding the battering ram as the panthers and leopards plunge upon them, a crystal clear etching of utter surprise and terror. I remember that image the best. The next best one is the one of the mace coming my way that I caught on my shield, nearly breaking my arm. The horse is ducking and dodging and I can hardly hold on. I try to draw the sword that hangs at my side, only to entangle it in the reins as I do so. The horse makes one more frantic twist, my balance is completely unequal, and I fall.

"Boy, get up."

Warm fur brushes against me; whiskers tickle my face. For a brief moment, I think that the Lion has returned. But the voice that speaks is deep and bass, soft and low, and belongs to a lesser cat. I open my eyes and am confronted by a large, graying panther.

My voice is not steady. "Is it over?"

"Yes. How long would you have lain there, child? Was this your first fight?"

I need not answer that, nor have I time. Corin is there immediately, dragging me away and shouting, "Father, Father!" He takes me directly to King Lune, who is wearing a frown. It seems immensely misplaced on his visage. "Father, look!"

"Look at what?" his father asks. "A disobedient son covered in battle-marks! Hardly the sight for sore eyes! I'm sure I instructed you to do otherwise, not find new ways to wring your father's heart!"

Corin's mouth quivers into a wry smile, and the Narnian lords all chuckle. This is an old routine, one they are well acquainted with. King Lune cuffs his son playfully before turning his attention on me. "Well, now. Whom have we here?" he asks more of himself as he approaches.

A bear hug takes my breath away, as does the man-sized clap on my back. The King turns both myself and Corin to face the crowd, and speaks loudly. "Is anyone yet in doubt?"

There is much cheering, and much wiping of eyes. And for the first time ever, I feel as though I'm somewhere that I belong.


	7. And what is Aravis thinking about?

I find that being a commoner is not quite as obnoxious as I have been led to believe. Getting my own meals and running my own errands is quite fulfilling, and suits my independent nature well. I am making up the bed as the Hermit enters the room. "My daughter, please go into the yard if you wish to exert yourself. Enjoy the benefit of the sunlight as long as you may."

I obey. The golden warmth spills over me and licks my skin and drenches me in airy sweetness. The lone tree in the enclosure gently rustles its verdure, though there is no wind. I am startled, and the old superstitions, the ones taught to me as an impressionable child, gather thick in my mind. _Is that tree…alive?_

"Aravis, dear, you're awake." The bristles on Hwin's nose scratch my neck and I turn, embrace her as her lips whicker fondly in my ear. The smell of horseflesh brings back painful memories. I twinge, even though my back is healed.

"Where's Bree?" I murmur.

"In the corner." Something in her voice worries me. "He hasn't said a word since yesterday, and I don't think that I can make him. Talk to him, won't you?"

I look at him, even as I cling to her neck. His noble head droops; his mane, limp with dew, drags the grass. His entire bearing is one of defeat. Frowning pensively, I release my dear friend and approach the war horse. Hwin bobs along behind me. 

Surely he's heard us, even though he doesn't lift his head. I look at Hwin, worry lines bunching in my brow. I see myself reflected in her large eyes, and the sight gives me no aid. Straining to force a smile, I say, "Isn't it a beautiful morning, Bree?"

He mumbles something unintelligible.

"I suppose that Shasta found the King. At least the Hermit thinks so. So we've made it at last. You're home, Bree!"

He finally speaks. His voice startles both Hwin and myself. It is mournful, broken, hardly befitting a strong confident charger. "This is not my home." He finally looks at us, his eyes full of sorrow. "I will return to Calormen tonight."

"Bree," Hwin begins, shocked.

He shakes the dew from his skin as he struggles to his feet. "I will grind grist at the Paduka mills. It would suit me well."

"But only the lowliest slaves work at Paduka," I protest. I want to take the words back as soon as I have spoken for they are foolish. Anywhere in Calormen would be slavery for a horse.

"It as much as I deserve," Bree retorts. "Should I show my face in the company of free horses of the North? I, who abandoned friends and comrades to be eaten by lions while I ran simply to save myself?"

"We all ran," Hwin argues weakly.

"All of us except Shasta," the other horse answers bitterly. "And how can I dare to boast of my deeds and my courage to true nobility, when I have been upstaged by an ignorant child who never had a good example set for him in his life? Shall I tell them just how quickly I ran away from a lion and left two children and a mare behind?" He turns away with a disgusted toss of his wet mane. We cannot counter, so we remain silent. 

The voice of the Hermit surprises us all. "Cousin, come now. There is no need for remonstrance. This is your wounded pride giving you grief. Surely you realize that your deeds and your courage were more noble by comparison to poor, dumb horses, but just as your actions then did not endow you with a special nobility, so a momentary failing now does not permanently disgrace you. If you are truly humbled, as long as you realize that you are not particularly special, whether in Narnia or not, you'll make quite a decent sort of horse, and there will be no cause for excessive pride or guilt. And now, will the two of you horses come to the back of the house and have some hot mash?"

I trail my fingers through the thick grass, making a pattern before obliterating it with a careless wave and rolling over onto my back. Thoughtfully, I pluck a stem and chew it, experimenting with its cool, tangy taste.

I can't believe that I have met Aslan. The stories that they tell about him in Calormen hardly mesh with the celestial being that I have seen. 

A force of irresistible evil, they said. I doubt that evil would long exist in his presence. He's so…very wild, and yet…I would feel content near him, even though I would be afraid. Perhaps I would not feel safe. His carriage does not inspire feelings of complacency. 

I wonder that I could be so awestruck and so very glad all at once. It reminds me in a vague way of the first time that I heard Hwin speak; disturbing, as it went against my assumed knowledge, and yet delighting, for it opened doors that I did not know existed.

A stab of sorrow pierces me keenly as I think about the family that I left behind: a kindly and generous father, the younger brother whom I doted on, and my hateful stepmother who was envious of me, a mere child, at age 14. They will not see him; they will never have their eyes opened. Though they live in a land blistered by the sun, they will never know true light.

The sound of a trumpet awakens me from my torpor, which I am grateful for. My thoughts were quickly headed in the direction of morbidity. I scramble to my feet as four men enter the gate. They are dressed in fine livery, and though the fashion is entirely foreign to my eyes, even I can tell that they are emissaries. They bow as I draw near.

"His Royal Highness, the Prince Cor, desires an audience with the lady Aravis," the head page announces to me, before withdrawing. A young man advances, and bows awkwardly. Though I am not impressed, I am nonetheless pleased and curtsy in return politely. Upon looking at the young man twice, I then burst out rudely, "Shasta!"

He immediately begins to stammer out an explanation, but I hardly hear for looking. He…looks very nice in finery. At the least, he doesn't look nearly as wretched as I thought he might. Why I had thought about what Shasta might look like in nicer clothes, I don't choose to consider.

"…my name isn't Shasta, you know. It's Cor."

"Really," is all that squeaks out. I suppose that it would only fit being nobility, he would have a different name. I swallow hard and manage, "Cor's nicer than Shasta."

He continues on, but I don't hear as I drink in his appearance. His soft blond hair flutters vainly against the enclosure of gold wire that crowns his head. He has always been a little slim, but the gauzy clothing that clings to his frame and warps in the breeze makes him look leaner than ever. My eyes stroke the bit of exposed skin that begins at his wrist and suddenly I realize that he is not speaking and that he also is staring at me, lips parted in a subtle pant.

I point at the gauze that mars his flesh, impolitely. "You were wounded." It is not a question.

He looks, smiles fondly at me and flicks his wrist formally. "Hardly. A mere scratch." He catches my gaze and his smile grows. "I took the skin off my knuckles. It's not worthy of being called a _wound._"

We make more small talk, and he tells me his story, a tale that I would have never given credence to had I heard it elsewhere. A kidnapped and lost prince; it seems altogether like a fairy tale. Like talking horses.

"You know, that lion that scratched you, Aravis, it wasn't going to kill you at all."

"Yes." Our eyes meet once again, but this time I can't bear up. I look down at the ground and kick the yielding grass. "I guess you'll be going on to Archenland and living in the castle, then?"

"Indeed, and you will too." I look up sharply, scrutinizing his face for mockery, but there is none, only the innocence that had once inspired my scorn. "Father's asked. There's been no lady at court since Mother died, and they're longing to meet you." He takes an uncertain step forward. "At least come meet them, Aravis, even if you won't stay."

"I'll stay," I answer without thinking. A great burden is off my heart, for I had not actually given thought to what I would do once I actually _arrived_ in Narnia; I was so consumed with just trying to get here. 

He smiles that lovely smile, and gently brushes past me to go greet the horses. I take his arm, restraining him. Something that I've wanted to say for some time is bubbling up. "Shasta – I mean, Cor – I…I'm s-"

He catches his hand in one of his own, imprisoning it, and presses a finger to my lips. I try to speak again, twisting away. "Please, I must tell you something."

Once again he restrains me, and I finally see the foam-flecked blue of his eyes up close. Somehow, they have the same wildness of the Lion Aslan's. "Aravis, you said it long ago. You needn't say it again."

Our wedding takes place in the woods near the castle, in a small grove that I have grown to love. King Lune planted every tree in it with his own scarred hands, and there are eight trees that he planted just for me when his son announced our engagement. That was six months ago, and the cool autumn breeze plays in the leaves of the birch trees and tousles my gown as Cor and I stand before the Hermit of the Southern March, who has graciously accommodated our request to join us in marriage. He is now one hundred and eleven years old, and his voice is as quiet and sonorous as the undertone of the brook that rushes by.

He sings to us in a melodious voice:

__

My son, my daughter, join hands together

To form one being. Let no man sever

What love has joined. Stand with each other,

To love, to honor, obey one another.

My son, my prince, be sure that guidance you obey,

Do not forsake your time-honored way.

Listen to counsel, of cautions take heed,

That in war or in peace you may always succeed.

Though this kingdom is yours, misuse not your power,

That has been granted you in this sacred hour.

My daughter, my princess, see before you this man;

Whe'er right or wrong, beside him stand.

His love is for you, for your sake alone

Has he embarked on this journey for future unknown.

Love your husband and king, and give him all your best,

May you be ever happy, and by Aslan be blest!

Cor smells of cream and cinnamon, I think as he leans towards me.

We kiss and the quiet grove echoes with applause and joyous weeping.


	8. The sun also rises

The time of the coronation was nigh, and Anvard Castle was in an uproar. Groomsmen rushed to and fro with orders and commands, the chambermaids spent much time running from room to room making sure all was in readiness for the evening, and the kitchen was strictly off limits to all non-essential personnel. This, apparently, included both the crown prince and his twin. Corin was disgruntled, and vanished to absolve his irritation over the interruption of his meals through hard exercise. Cor, after being measured repeatedly and fussed over for what seemed entirely too long, had finally found enough time to slip out of the castle and take to the gardens. After fielding what seemed like an endless procession to people wanting to offer their congratulations, the orchard was a welcome respite. He walked past the primary trees, further back into the grove where he had married his-now queen.

She had been much calmer than he during the process. But, he mused, she's probably used to it, having been a noble in Calormen.

He wondered if Aravis was already outside, perhaps waiting for him. She was particularly fond of these trees, and spent much time here. 

~~~~*~~~~ 

She had vanished for nearly four days three weeks prior to their wedding, prompting a frantic search. As Cor ran through his father's garden with a promise of help from the surrounding noblemen, he came across her in a secluded corner, wearing nothing but a silken gown. The imprint of her knees had worn a patch in the grass, as she had been there for some time. Naturally, he asked her where she had been; she explained that she had been performing the rites that all maidens made to Zardeenah upon entering a marriage contract.

"But we're in Narnia, Aravis. You needn't do that anymore."

"I am a Calormene by birth, no matter where I am, and this is what we as women do. As I recall –" her dark eyes flashed – "_you_ always looked to the North, even on the south side of the world."

"Yes, but –"

"It was embedded in you. Much as this is embedded in me."

"You should pray to Aslan for what you need."

She was sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest, making her look very young. She patted the grass and he sat down. "Why don't you ask me what the rites to Zardeenah are about, instead of trying to pick a quarrel?"

So he did.

"We ask Zardeenah to make us desirable to our husbands, and to help us to effectively practice what we have been…shall I say, _taught._ But because I had no mother to tell me anything, I have been praying to Zardeenah to give me wisdom along this…_unknown_ path." Her lips curled, lending a coy element to her face. She reached and touched his stubbled cheek. "I just want to make a good wife for you, Cor."

He took her small hand and imprisoned it in his own, silently thanking Aslan for deeming him worthy of such a woman.

~~~~*~~~~ 

He found her some distance from the castle. She was sitting on an ornate wooden bench, clad in a silvery gray gown that shimmered when she moved. Cor approached her, wondering at her loveliness. The clear moonlight bathed her dark skin and made the black waves of her hair glow. She smiled at him and invited him to sit down with a gesture. "Welcome, my king."

He sat, kissing her hand and bringing it around to caress his face, a mutual sign of affection that they had established some time ago. They remained silent for some time, Aravis looking up towards the moon, and Cor gazing upon his wife.

"You look absolutely breathtaking tonight," he finally said. She inclined her head against his shoulder, still looking up at the moon.

"My father wanted you to wear that dress."

"Yes. I remember watching the dryads gather the material to make it. Who would have thought…" She let the thought go unfinished and sighed. "Is your father up _there_…" She pointed towards the glowing moon, "…or out _there?"_ She indicated the horizon with a sweep of her hand.

"I think that he's with us, right now."

She nestled in closer. "I think so too. Surely Aslan let him see us…it isn't fair that someone has to die before their son can become king, is it?"

"It keeps those of us who love our fathers from becoming too envious," he murmured as he inhaled the scent of her hair, a mixture of warm scalp and flowers and fragrant water. "And it keeps a king from becoming too bitter."

They sat together, smiling at each other and enjoying this rare moment alone. Cor had so much to learn that he had hardly been at home at Anvard. Even after their engagement, he was in her presence but infrequently. Their first kiss had been at the wedding, a testimony to how little she had seen of him. "My friend Lasaraleen Tarkheena was here tonight."

He sat up at this name; Lasaraleen had been instrumental to their successful journey across the desert. "Was she? I was unaware."

"I invited her personally, though I must say that I was surprised that she came. I invited my father and his family as well."

"He did not come?"

"He has disowned me. My deception and falsehood, he said in his reply, was disgraceful and brought shame to our family. He would not accept as his own a daughter who has embraced such foreign ideas."

The calmness of her voice startled Cor. He looked hard at her face, but she seemed resigned, more so than upset. "Lasaraleen told me that since my departure, my stepmother has gained more influence over my father. Undoubtedly she has much to do with his change of heart, although I suspect that he _is_ disappointed in his own right. He had much to gain from my marriage to Ahoshta Tarkaan."

Cor slipped an arm around her shoulders, sharing warmth. "Did she bring her husband with her?"

"She came alone. Her husband could not come, as he is part of the Tisroc's guard and to attend a Narnian coronation would bring much suspicion upon him. She herself must return home tomorrow, and in secret."

"Did you speak with her privately?"

"She wrote me by a trusted messenger and said that she would come by sea in a commoner's ship, and disguised. I have kept her in my own room since yesterday. She was too afraid to be seen publicly otherwise."

"And you did not see fit to tell me, at least?"

"Cor, she is so very timid. She would only agree to come under promise of the strictest secrecy. Remember also that Calormenes are taught rumors and myths about Narnia, and thus they fear as well as hate. What could I do otherwise but agree to keep her presence in confidence?"

He smiled wryly at her. "Have you become a diplomat, my dear?"

"I merely have knowledge pertinent to both sides. I only wish to be fair."

"A trait well suited to a queen. Shall we go in now?"

"Soon," she replied and they lapsed into silence once again.

"I suppose that Archenland is…mildly jarring for her," he said eventually.

"The talking animals frighten her, but other than that she enjoys it. She spent the majority of her time looking at my clothes, anyway."

He ran his rough fingers over the fabric of the gown. "Did she like this one?"

Aravis smiled ruefully. "She demanded to borrow it – until I told her how it was made. Then she wouldn't come near it."

"And what horrid secret, pray tell, could bend the spirit of a determined Tarkheena?"

She leaned in close, as if she feared to be overheard. "This dress was made from the fog that surrounds Stormness Head. It was made by dryads, and by magic."

Cor chuckled. "A haunted dress?"

"Indeed." She stood, regal and yet unassuming all at once. "I do believe it is time to return, my good sir."

He offered her his arm. "After you, my lady."

~~~~*~~~~

There had been several Calormenes in attendance at the coronation, for the rumor that Archenland was about to have a dark-skinned queen had caused much speculation in the southern lands, and those who could afford the journey wanted to look upon her for themselves. It was thus with much bated breath that Cor of Archenland led his wife, Aravis Tarkheena of Calormen, to the royal dais where they were presented to all assembled as the King and Queen of Archenland.

Lasaraleen Tarkheena pulled a richly embroidered cloth close around her head. She could not risk her husband's military career by being noticed, but neither could she have refused to see her friend again, and especially not when this friend was about to become royalty. Cowering lest she be recognized, she only looked up as the royal trumpets began to blast at the entrance of the newly crowned couple. The king stood tall in a dark blue uniform, his blond hair grown thick and long. His face was stern, but there was a clear joy about him that shone through. And next to him was her friend, resplendent in the iridescent gown that contrasted well against copper skin. "She looks so happy," she murmured. "I would have never dreamed that Aravis could smile like that."

The official ceremony was over. Quickly, she pushed her way out through the milling crowds and walked hurriedly through the courtyard. No matter how many times Aravis had attempted to reassure her, Lasaraleen could not get used to the idea of _talking tree spirits._ And the idea that they had made Aravis's dress from fog…it made her shiver with terror. As rapidly as she could manage, she climbed the stairs that led back to Aravis's old room. She had been promised not to be disturbed again until the time came to depart.

After a hot bath, she changed quickly and crawled into the large bed, pulling the sheets up to her cold nose. "Tash," she whispered, "protect me in this land of demons and ghosts! Just help me to leave this place in safety, and I'll never come back here again!"

A voice murmured "My daughter" so quietly that she attributed it to her imagination. But it comforted her, and she sat up in bed. "Lord Tash…?"

A most curious aroma filled the air, boring into her senses and making her feel things that she had not felt in years: recklessness, intense passion and an nearly overwhelming joy. And before she could wonder at these sudden and unexpected desires, she realized that the Lion's head crest that sat on the wall was alive…

~~~~*~~~~

"Goodbye, dearest." Aravis handed her friend into the ship, waving her away from the dock. The small vessel pulled off slowly, the fullsail raising and billowing out as it caught the force of the wind. The young queen watched in the dawn until the ship was lost against the murky horizon, and then she slowly made her way up to the castle ramparts, where the king was waiting. She drew near to him, and he pulled her into his strong arms, offering her his warmth.

"Was she well, Aravis? She seemed unusually quiet."

She pinched him, reproachfully. "That's not very nice of you to say."

"I merely meant…" A few more prods led to a consoling embrace before he could continue. "Normally she is more talkative. Was she…bothered? Did someone say something to her?"

"Yes." She folded herself in his heavy cloak; her gauzy nightgown was no match for the early morning dew. "She met Aslan last night."

"Did she!"

"The plaque in the room came to life, and spoke to her. She did not tell me what they spoke about. But she was changed. From the moment that she arrived, she had been afraid, frightened. When I saw her this morning, she had the look of one who had overcome fear at last." She smiled up at her husband. "She's promised to write me."

Cor said nothing, holding her close. The sun had almost completely risen by this point.

"She wants to come back sometime."

"She is always welcome."

They stood and watched as golden light washed over Anvard Castle. In the orchard, birds were singing.

"I love you, my lady." Cor bent his head against her own, and kissed her.

She didn't answer him, but her smile told him everything that she could not say. She slipped her arm into his, and they walked back together.

FIN


End file.
